


The Only One for Him

by musamihi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Non Consensual, Parody, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock battles his way through as many tropes of the Johnlock-coopting-other-pairings-as-plot-devices phenomenon one author can fit into a reasonably sized story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only One for Him

**Author's Note:**

> Written in a (mostly successful?) attempt to hit all the squares on this fantastic [Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty Fanfiction by Johnlock Shippers](http://joansing.tumblr.com/post/38147662907/life-of-a-sherlock-holmes-jim-moriarty-shipper) bingo card.

Jim's flat was empty, disused, cheap - it gave the impression of being distinctly un-lived-in, like a sordid hotel room. The high ceilings and bare concrete walls recalled an abandoned warehouse, and Sherlock knew - knew without a doubt - this was where Jim Moriarty laid his head. No other man could have lived here. No other man could have tolerated the sheer inhumanity of it, the brutal, bone-deep cold.

Sherlock had left Baker Street silent and peaceful behind him. Mrs. Hudson was asleep, and pressing his ear to John's door he'd perceived no signs of activity. Confident in the security of his own home, he'd answered the invitation that had come to his phone, Jim's usual pithy text: _want 2 play? :)_

He had. He had wanted to play, and yet he hadn't. He knew Jim was dangerous, deadly, that he stood to disrupt everything Sherlock held dear - his solid, tranquil, loving relationship with John, his newfound and healthy connection with the work that defined his life by the fascinating minutiae of human lives. Jim threatened all of that, and yet acted as a tempting beacon, a siren back to the days when Sherlock had been a slave to cocaine. Jim was a drug. Jim was his drug, and even though he could see John's beautiful, soft, tolerant face begging him not to take the hit every time he thought of it, still he was beckoned on like an addict to the needle -

But that was why he couldn't tell John. He had slipped out in secret; what he had with Jim could never see the light of day. It was too shameful. Too dangerous. He had shouldered his way out of his flat, tucking his chin to his chest in the dark, and hunched his shoulders against the cold, and gone to meet the man who held him captive by some strange, hypnotic force.

He hadn't got very far. Jim's men had jumped him, like they always did, pulling the black hood over his head and bundling him into the boot of the car. Jim could never let anything be on anyone else's terms. He was too dominant, too monstrous a presence. He took up the whole of Sherlock's horizon, a massive, brutalist structure on the skyline of the new life he had built himself with his precious doctor.

And now he was in Jim's flat, the hood yanked off his head, the light glaring into his sensitive eyes. And there - there, in the corner of the room, enough to make Sherlock's blood run cold in his veins under his pale porcelain skin, was John. John, bound to a chair, blindfolded, his lip split and bloody. Sherlock's breath left him as though he'd been punched in the gut. _No._

"Hi, sweetie." Jim was lounging in an armchair, a hulking shadow of man behind him, blond and chiseled and muscular and threatening. "Having fun, darling? Sorry, I just couldn't wait to see you, baby. I was just - well, you know. I get so fucking horny when I think about you, my dear, and you've been paying so much attention to your precious _doctor_ ," here he threw his glass full of vodka at John, where it impacted against his shoulder, drawing out a stoic, muffled cry that tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings, "that I was getting a might envious. Why this soft idiot, Sherlock? Why this dumb, loyal dog and not me? Honey?"

Sherlock couldn't look at John. He had started to come here of his own accord, and he felt too guilty - he knew this was his fault, for letting Jim do this to them. For letting Jim wound John in pursuit of him. "Because, Jim," he said, low and flat. The emotion never seemed to rise to his voice unless he was addressing John. "Because he -"

"Oh, shut up," Jim said, leaping out of the chair. "I just want to fuck you, Sherlock. You think I want anything else from you? From either of you? You think I give a damn what you think about this idiot mutt?"

Sherlock knew he didn't. He knew he had to do whatever Jim said - to save John. Anything to save John. So he shut up.

Jim stalked over to him, sinking his hand into Sherlock's luscious, dense, black curls. "I want you so much," he hissed into Sherlock's ear. "We have something special, don't we? I know we do -"

"Do what you want," Sherlock spat, all venom and bitterness. His eyes found John's sagging shoulders, his kind, defeated profile. "But we will never have anything."

Jim swore and threw him onto the bed. For a moment the two of them grappled together; Sherlock knew he had to fight for the next hour of his life, and he didn't mean to let Jim win. But soon Jim's blond goon grabbed his wrists up and twisted them, forcing him onto his stomach; and Jim was on top of him, forcing himself between his legs and tearing at his trousers. John's mouth was a miserable, flat line. Sherlock shut his eyes - he couldn't watch it, couldn't admit to himself that he was allowing this madman to have his way with him.

But so it was. Jim's hands pawed all over him. He could feel his delicate white skin bruising under the assault of his fingertips, his teeth. The hulking assistant bound his hands to the headboard, and Sherlock didn't resist. He let himself be taken, because John was relying on him. John needed him. John, the shining star in his life - he couldn't even explain how, but somehow he had made himself the warm, brilliant, human center of Sherlock's universe - needed him to do it. So Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip and endured. 

When it was done the sheets were tainted with his blood. His back was open with wounds from Moriarty's fingernails and teeth. Sherlock was sore and horrified with the picture he must have presented to his other half, his better half. But John, beautiful, perfect, _relatable_ John, sat with his eyes shut, not looking on the awful scene because he knew Sherlock wouldn't want him to, and he knew Sherlock knew best. And from that, Sherlock found strength - from that, he found the power to sit upright as soon as Moriarty's muscular blond untied him. "Get out," he growled. This was Jim's flat, but he was finished. He'd given Jim everything he wanted. Jim never wanted anything but his body, his beautiful, pale, angular body, and Sherlock had provided it. "Leave us alone."

Jim was livid. "Are you joking, darling?" he barked, pushing himself up like a snake off the mattress. "Is this really how you treat me, honey? I thought we had something special -"

Sherlock kicked at him. "Get out! We don't have anything!" He couldn't have articulated why, but the only something he had was with John. John didn't satisfy him intellectually, nor did Sherlock have any interest in physical sexual relations, nor did he really care all that much about having monogamous emotional or physical relationships, but all the same, he knew John was the only man for him. They had chemistry. John was the heart and he was the head, and everyone knew those were complimentary opposites that had to end up together to satisfy literary convention. And who was Sherlock Holmes to fly in the face of convention? God forbid.

Jim left, gnashing his teeth and growling about next time, his blond lackey in tow. Luckily, he was hit by a bus as soon as he walked into the street, and died on impact. And Sherlock untied John and spent a lovely, tender evening in his care in the blood-stained bed, clinging to him as one clings to a dream. He loved John so much, and even if he couldn't say why, who was he to inquire into the mysteries of life? He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't need reasons. He just knew John was good, and kind, and wonderful, and that was all he cared about. That was all he'd ever cared about. Stability. Warmth. Jumpers. He knew he himself was deficient as a person, and he needed this lovely, kittenish man to complete him. To keep him stable and to make him human.

And now he was. He was a person, not a monster. Because John was here.

For some reason.


End file.
